PAUL'S TREASURE

     I could see smoke rising towards the clouds and creating a swirling grey backdrop for the large oak trees that were obstructing my view of the source.  Still, I realized it was coming from somewhere close by.  A feeling in my stomach told me something was wrong.

     Putting the sales presentation I had been completing for my boss on hold, (a typical Saturday chore), I slipped on my tennis shoes, hurried out of front door and ran down the decade’s old sidewalk in front of my house that would take me to the smoke’s source.  I rationalized the “where there is smoke there is fire” anxiety by convincing myself a neighbor was probably just burning a pile of leaves or brush.   But I also knew that type of behavior was unusual in our neighborhood since city workers picked up any debris left on the curb each week.

     I kept my eyes fixated on the smoke because it seemed to be getting thicker and more pronounced. Finally, I was close enough to determine the cause.  That’s when panic pierced through me which caused my stomach to knot and take my breath.

     Paul’s house was on fire! Paul was a widower many of us only knew from a quick wave while driving by or a chance meetings at the supermarket or the Halloween ritual when our kids would knock on his door and trade a smile for a few pieces of candy.

     I regained my poise and dialed 911 from my cell phone.  When it was confirmed that emergency personnel had been dispatched, I ran closer for a better view. That’s when I noticed Paul’s old truck sitting in his driveway.  He lived alone and his truck in the driveway meant he was probably inside.  I sprinted frantically across his yard to the front door of his house. 

BAM! BAM! BAM!

BAM! BAM! BAM!

     My frantic knocking must have startled Paul, who I could now see through the decretive glass oval in the center of the door.  It appeared he had been napping peacefully in his living room recliner, a book resting across his chest.  He began slowly making his way to the door with no sense of urgency as though I were there to sell him a magazine subscription or a box of cookies. 

     Reaching the other side of the door, Paul rubbed his glasses with a handkerchief and put them back on so as to get a better look at who had disturbed his nap.  Staring back at me through the decretive glass oval, Paul recognized me, smiled, and casually swung the door open.  He was just about to utter one of the many usual greetings neighbor’s share – something along the lines of, nice to see you or how have you been, but I quickly interrupted with the statement...

     “Your house is on fire!”

     I waited for a response, but Paul didn’t utter a word. 

     I anxiously spoke again…

     “We may have a little time to get some of your valuables out!” What do you need me to help you gather???” 

     Without answering, Paul turned back into the house and began doing something unexpected.  He quickly began gathering stones from a shelf by the front door and shoving them in his pockets.  After a few seconds he turned to me and said, “Gather all the stones you can carry.  Don’t worry about anything else!” 

     I was confused.  But I also didn’t feel it was appropriate to question a man’s motives when his house was on fire, so I followed Paul’s instructions. 

     Rushing into the house, I hit my knee on the corner of a plastic recycling box sitting beside the door. It was filled with newspapers.  I grabbed one side of the box with my right hand and in a fluid motion dumped the newspapers in the floor while beginning to grab stones with my left.

     As Paul and I began filling the box, our movements and actions resembled a frantic Easter egg hunt, except no one was laughing or smiling or holding up a shiny egg exclaiming, “Look what I found!”

     I grabbed every stone I could see from shelves, bookcases, the living room coffee table, and the mantle.  There were small stones, stones the size of my fist, stones with sparkly minerals, and stones with course edges and rough textures.

     During this entire process, one thought kept replaying in my mind: “What is Paul thinking???” Then I would refocus my efforts on gathering each stone, completely ignoring the fine china, television, books, furniture, paintings on the walls and decorative items sitting around.

     Sirens in the distance were becoming louder.  I told Paul that we had to get out of the house.  It was getting too dangerous to be inside.  We had gathered most of the stones, just as he had instructed.

     Paul told me to take the box of stones and get out.  He said he had to get one last stone which was sitting on his bedroom nightstand just down the hall.  We looked at each other for a few seconds.  I wanted to argue for his safety but quickly turned and raced out the front door with the now heavy box. 

     Reaching the front lawn, I turned and looked upward to see flames now emerging from the upstairs windows.  The fire was licking the side of the old home, singeing the wooden overhang and beginning to melt the ivory-colored siding.  I felt afraid and lucky.  I knew we had tempted fate by staying in the house as long we did. 

      Feelings of relief replaced fear when I finally saw Paul coming out of the front door.  He was using one hand to wave the thickening smoke away from his face while grasping a large stone next to his chest with the other.  He staggered across the lawn with the large stone, coughing out smoke that had filled his lungs.  When he reached me, he patted me on the shoulder and then turned around so we could share the same gloomy viewpoint of his house being engulfed in flames.  

     Within minutes, emergency personnel arrived and Paul confirmed that there were no other people or pets inside.  We stood in silence amid the roaring engines, high-pitched sirens, firefighter’s commands, deployed ladders, hoses clanging, and busy firefighters suiting up to fight the now massive blaze which, from my view, was already a lost battle. 

     I remember thinking, “Wow, Paul’s life is literally going up in flames!  He has spent years building a life and now all he can do is stand here and watch it disappear.  How tragic!” 

     I felt for the old guy.  Here was a guy standing next to me losing everything he owned.  And this wasn’t one of the stories I see on the evening news from the comfort of my couch – a story happening in an unfamiliar town to an unfamiliar person.  I could smell the smoke in my clothing and feel the heat from the fire.  My emotions were interwoven into this story – emotions that were being tossed back and forth uncontrollably by waves of sadness, anger, helplessness, and fear.  But this time, I could not simply change the television channel and hide from it or pretend it was not happening.  This was real.  So when I looked at Paul, I guess I expected to see a quivering lip, tears streaming down his face or a look of defeat and desperation – the Hollywood image of tragedy that news stations only seem to air while reporting another’s misfortune. 

     But I didn’t see those things. 

     Paul was just standing there, holding that final stone he retrieved from the bedroom nightstand close to his chest and staring at the burning house. I was surprised.

     And then the reality of what we were doing just minutes before hit me. 

     “Stones???  We were running through a burning house gathering stones???  Where is the logic in that?  What about the television, furniture, paintings, or other valuables?  Why didn’t we attempt to roll out that big floor safe that was sitting in the hallway?  Surely there was money or jewelry in it!  I was in in a burning house risking my life just to gather up a box of rocks?  What if something had happened to me???”

     I began feeling agitated and foolish regarding the risk we had taken. I looked down at the plastic recycling box filled with these now questionable assets.  Crouching down, I picked up one of the stones from the box.  While running it through my hands, I noticed something was inscribed on the bottom of the stone.  At first it was hard to read, but when I held the stone up, sunlight illuminated the pencil etching and reflected a message back.

“The day my son was born.”

     Now curious, I sat that stone down and picked another up.  Following the same steps as before, another message was visible.

  “The first Christmas Annie and I spent together as husband and wife.” 

     I repeated the process.  The next stone read,

“The day I first danced with my daughter in the park.”

     And with each stone I picked up, a new message appeared...

“The day Annie and I found out we were pregnant.” 

“The day we went to the beach for the first time.”

 “The day my little girl told me she loved me for the first time.”

 “The day my son made the little league team.” 

“The day my son realized he needed God more than he needed me.”

 “The day my granddaughter kissed me on the cheek for the first time.”

     I then picked up one of the larger, more beautiful stones from the bottom of the box.

 “The day I kissed Annie for the last time.” 

     At that moment I realized, these were not stones.  They were symbols of Paul’s life - memories sitting all around him.

     I then felt Paul staring down at me.  My initial thought was I had upset him by blatantly reading each stone – an act he may have found offensive as though I were reading his private diary. 

     However, he didn’t respond that way.  He stared at me for a few seconds and realized, without saying a word, how I now understood the true meaning behind his request to save the stones.  He then handed me the large stone that filled his hands – the one he had removed from his nightstand beside his bed.

     I turned it over to read what was written on the bottom. 

“The day I asked Annie to marry me.”  

     These stones symbolized Paul’s life – his personal treasures.  While so many of us were surrounding ourselves with expensive things that, during a moment like this, had no real value, Paul had figured out how to make an otherwise ordinary stone priceless and something worth risking his life to save. 

     I then realized that we have all stood in Paul’s shoes.  We have all had moments when our life catches on fire and we are forced to flee from what was once considered a happy and safe place.  And the fires we face - the moments when we are standing helplessly, watching our life being damaged or destroyed, may come in the form of sickness, job loss, a failed business, a broken marriage, the death of a loved one or natural disaster.  Regardless of what form the fire takes, it’s the things we would risk our life to save – the things we embrace closest to our heart – the memories of the good times that hold us together while we’re recovering from the bad times that really matter. Those are the real treasures in a man’s life.

     As night began to fall and the panicky nature of the day subsided, I knew it was time for me to go home.  Paul’s son had arrived earlier to pick Paul up. After they took time to thank me for what I had done, I walked with Paul to his son’s car, carrying his box of stones.  I ran my hands over a few of them one last time before loading them in the trunk of the car.  As I watched the car pull away, I could see Paul sitting in the passenger seat, still clinging to that large stone from his nightstand.  I waved goodbye.  I was not sure when, or even if, I would ever see him again.

     Making my way back home, I took a shortcut across Paul’s trampled lawn, glancing over at the charred remains of what used to be a nice, old home.  I had to step around and over debris caused by the day’s event – an event that made a once attractive yard now look like a battlefield. As I walked by what was left of Paul’s flowerbeds, I reached down and picked up one of the smooth river stones he used as decretive groundcover and slipped it into my pocket. 

     My thoughts seemed to resonate somewhere between sadness and thankfulness.  I thought of myself in Paul’s shoes.  I asked myself, “If this had been my home, what would I have saved?  How many stones have I actually taken time to collect in my life?  How many stones have I forgotten about, misplaced, overlooked, or simply not appreciated as much as I should?”

     At home, I found my wife and children sitting around our dining table, talking and laughing over a homemade pizza they had prepared together.  I spoke with them for a few minutes and then excused myself to go write something down before it slipped my mind. 

     I went straight to my office and took out the garden stone from my pocket.  With a pencil, I inscribed two words on the bottom of the stone.

 “Paul’s Treasure”

     I held the stone in my hand for a few minutes, gazing out of my office window - the same window I had been looking out earlier in the day when I first noticed the smoke rising from Paul’s house.  I thought of Paul and felt privileged to experience an event that had turned an otherwise ordinary Saturday into a life-altering moment for me.  And I never wanted to forget it. 

     I sat the now priceless stone on my desk and returned to the dining room to spend time enjoying pizza with my family.  I wanted to embrace the opportunity to add to my own treasure.